by Weston Ochse
The special troops battalion had the signal and military intelligence companies I expected. But they also had an electrical engineer section, a mass propulsion section, and a xenobiological section. These new sections were clearly to address the Cray.
The fires battalion had two batteries of 8-inch Howitzers, equipment which hadn’t been used in the U. S. inventory for more than two decades, and a fires acquisition battery. Two Howitzers had been brought into the training area and were to be used to retrain the artillery men and women how to use the older, slower, but much more powerful artillery pieces.
The reconnaissance battalion had a headquarters company, two reconnaissance companies, and a special reconnaissance company. The SRC was comprised of twelve infantry squads, a sniper section and a communications section. No longer Team 19 or Tin 22, we were now known as 3rd Recon Squad, Special Reconnaissance Battalion, Brigade Combat Team OMBRA.
Once the unit organization was laid out, we separated into our battalions, then our units. One problem I saw right away was that we didn’t have any weapons or body armor. And it wasn’t just recon. The infantry units didn’t have any weapons either. But after a hurried conversation with the RSM, our non-commissioned officers returned and told us not to worry about it. The equipment was on the way.
We immediately began to go over basic infantry maneuvers by squad. We’d practice later, but for now our instructors, more black-fatigued TF OMBRA men and women, wanted us to be able to learn and regurgitate basic infantry maneuvers such as traveling, bounding, overwatch and combinations therein. Olivares and I knew them, but neither Ohirra, Aquino nor Thompson had ever practiced them. MacKenzie knew them, but he called them by different names. Once he grasped the concepts, he was able to spit it all back to the instructors, and soon we were all speaking the same grunt language.
But something was missing. Not only didn’t we have the right equipment, but we didn’t have a target. These maneuvers were meant to attack something on land. Moving from one piece of cover to another didn’t mean a thing with a hundred thousand Cray flying overhead who could see your every move.
“Do you ever wonder how many species there might be?” Thompson asked one day after training.
“All the time.” We all wondered, usually pushing the overwhelming ideas into the farthest, darkest corners of our minds, back to where the creatures in our closets flourished and the beasts under our beds lived.
Thompson stared at the palm of his hand. “What if there are some we can’t see?”
“You mean like invisible?”
“No. Not really invisible. But what if there are aliens so small we don’t even recognize them?”
I stared at the smallest member of 3rd Recon. The idea of something so small never crossed my mind, but now that it was there, I felt the impossibility of combating it.
“I remember when I was a kid living in Iowa,” Thompson began, his forefinger of his right hand brushing away something invisible in the palm of his left. “I used to chase the white cotton that flew from dying dandelions. I’d capture it and stare until the ball disintegrated, and I wondered if I was seeing a universe in microcosm. I always thought, what if this is a colony and they were suddenly removed from life as they knew it, carried by winds they had no control over?”
He glanced quickly in my direction, but I merely smiled. I was entranced by what he was saying. I wanted to hear more.
“Remember that movie awhile back where the plants on Earth turned against us? They let off some sort of pheromone that set us to killing each other, sort of a way for our planet to weed us out.” He turned back to his hand. “Remember that, Mason?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“What if the aliens were like that? What if they were so small you couldn’t see them? What if even now I’m like the finger of some retarded god poking into a universe I didn’t even know existed?”
“Where would these microscopic aliens live?” I asked after a few moments.
“Everywhere. Anywhere. In here,” he said, pointing at his head. “We already know that there’s a species of Cray that can invade our bodies and control us, or make us kill ourselves, or just make us die. What would we do?”
Thinking about videos we’d seen, from Japan, of people ripping into each other, I wondered. Was it as simple as that? Were the Cray making us kill ourselves? If they were capable of that, then why send drones? Why not just send in their microscopic army to make us fight each other?
“Maybe it doesn’t work on every species,” I said. “They’d have to have an expectation of certain brain activity. They probably knew how our brains were constructed through their reconnaissance. They could have even tailored the other species to attack us more successfully.” I remembered seeing footage of one man holding his daughter, right before another woman came and bashed his head in. “But it doesn’t work on everyone.”
Thompson smiled broadly. “No, it doesn’t.” He smacked his hands together so loud I jumped. “It works on most, but not everyone. I wonder if TF OMBRA knew something about that. I wonder if they chose us exactly for that reason. You know there are some scientists who believe that suicides have different brain chemistry.”
I regarded him. I’d been humoring him at first, but the drummer boy might be onto something. “That would suggest they know more than they’ve let on.”
“They’ve been sharing knowledge as we need to know it.”
“Are you saying they’re working with the aliens?”
“No, not at all,” Thompson said. “Although I wouldn’t put it past them. What I’m saying is that they’ve known for some time. They knew enough to choose us because they know that our brains are the only ones that can’t be affected by the Cray.”
I laughed. “This is supposition, wrapped in conspiracies, stuffed with a suicidal filling. You don’t really believe this, do you? Don’t forget, that thing in the basement in Alabama was all over the inside of my mind.”
“That might be something only the Sirens can do.” Thompson shrugged and resumed picking at an invisible universe in the palm of his hand. Then he looked up. “Why not a conspiracy? I have a lot of time to think. I spend my life trying to figure out the what-ifs. This is no less logical than that TF OMBRA just figured they’d go to all this trouble just because it’s a no-return mission. I mean, heck, it’d be a lot simpler just emptying the prisons or asking random soldiers from around the world if they wanted to either save the universe or be killed by an alien invasion.”
And then he was silent.
I wanted to laugh at him. I wanted to scoff at his theory, but like most good theories, it had enough logic to make me wonder if he didn’t really have a better idea about what was going on than the rest of us.
I got up and headed back to our tin with a new respect for our little drummer boy. He might be crazy, but he was our crazy, and who knew, he might just hold the secret to beating these damned aliens between the beats of the drum in his mind.
You, you, and you... panic. The rest of you, come with me.
Anonymous U.S. Marine Corps
Gunnery Sgt.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THREE MONTHS PASSED.
We gathered for briefings at regular intervals as footage of the world’s decimation was shown to us from cameras found outside of Cray-occupied areas. With all aboveground communications arrays compromised, only subsurface and subsea communications methods were working. Project Unity, which was completed in 2008, had created a ten-thousand-kilometer undersea fiber optic cable system linking North America with Asia. Multiple cables tapped into this network, creating an electronic pipeline capable of transmitting almost eight terabytes of data per second. At the time of its creation, Project Unity had added twenty percent to the world’s data capability, but after the invasion, it became a hundred percent. Without it, BCT OMBRA would be living in the black, surviving on supposition, rumor, and conspiracies.
By day we saw the destruction of Los Angeles, Moscow, Beijing, London, P
rague and a hundred other cities. When Tokyo went down, we all began shouting for Godzilla, half-joking and half-wishing.
By night, we talked about it all. With no booze, no drugs, no music and no movies, we had nothing but stories across the proverbial camp fire. But what do you talk about when the most terrifying thing has already happened? You talk about what could be worse, such as the possible nefarious purposes behind the formation of OMBRA.
We talked about Thompson’s idea about our brain chemistry, and the more we spoke about it, the more it seemed to be a possibility. Our conversations sparked a wildfire within the tins. Our little drummer boy, honoring his profession in the best of ways, had laid down a beat to which everyone had begun marching.
Then one day Mr. Pink met with us. We expected bullshit. We expected to be lied to. The last thing we expected was the truth.
“I’ve heard the rumors,” he told us. “I understand your frustration. First let me say that we have a delivery being made right after my speech. This delivery will change our way of fighting the Cray. It will make all the difference in the world. It will give you a chance to kill them, and it’s better than anything we had before. It’s a prototype. More are being made, but this is what we have thus far.”
A rumble of conversation soon drowned him out. But then the RSM came on stage and ordered us all to silence. It took him several tries, but eventually, grudgingly, we stopped talking.
“So I’ve heard that you all think you were chosen because your brain chemistry is different from ‘normal’ people’s, that having suicidal thoughts rewires your brain.” Mr Pink said. “I’ve been told that this is the most ridiculous theory anyone has ever wasted the time to create. I’ve also been warned that I shouldn’t tell you the truth. Let me dispense with all of this advice and face you like a leader.
“You’re right.”
And there it was.
I momentarily forgot about the promised salvation and listened to him as he began to talk to the geography of my mind.
“We knew early on about the Cray’s ability to use the human brain as a transmitter. We have forty-four members of BCT OMBRA who we allowed to witness the vile subjugation of the human consciousness. These men and women, whom I shall refer to as the Forty-Four, will be made available to speak to each and every one of you, to carry the word, the truth, to the darkest corners of this cavern. It’s important that all of you know. That all of you see.”
He swallowed and sought me out from amongst the thousands, as if he knew exactly where I was standing. “Until then,” he said, “let me share with you the results of one afternoon in Dothan, Alabama.
“Lights!”
The lights went out and a scene I knew very well began to play out on the screen, from the POV of one of the assault team.
We saw the team break through the door and rush into the dining room.
A collective gasp seemed to shake the room.
The view shifted first to Mr. Pink, then to me, and I saw for the first time how terrified and sickened I was at the sight of that family. My fellow soldiers began to glance at me and I ignored them, my gaze riveted to the screen.
Then the stairs, then the basement, and then the—
Cries of shock and disgust filled the cavern as we saw the polymorphic mass. I clamped my hands over my ears as those baby heads began screaming. Even with the electronic filtering, I could see the effects of the alien siren song on those around me. Their eyes glazed over. Their hands became claws which opened and closed, finally resolving into fists. Their faces sagged as the weight of the universe and everything they’d ever done and left undone settled on their consciences.
M*A*S*H had it all wrong. Suicide isn’t painless. It’s the end of pain, and there’s nothing worse than the pain one’s own mind can exert upon one’s soul.
The sound snapped off.
The lights switched on.
But the image of Mr. Pink and myself and our weapons remained frozen on the screen—Mr. Pink’s gun to his own head and my gun pointing at him.
Thank God the guns had been empty.
“We’re just now learning how the aliens manipulate the chemistry of the human brain to their advantage. For the most part, you all are immune to the Cray. They can’t use you like they can the rest of humanity. Your minds are shadowed to them. The only way they seem to be able to affect us is with this polymorphic mass we’re calling a Siren.
“Our scientists compare our immunity to our own serotonin deficiency. One of the metabolic products is a chemical called 5-hydroxyindoleacetic acid, abbreviated as 5-HIAA. Through autopsies and drawing spinal fluid from the living, our scientists have found decreased levels of 5-HIAA, as well as amino acid tryptophans. The bottom line is that what made you the way you are is what’s going to allow you to be able to get close enough to kill the Cray.
“The Forty-Four were there. They can testify. They’ve seen the power the Siren can exert on the mind. Listen to them when they speak to you. Ask them questions. Don’t let them leave with anything unasked or unsaid.
“We’ve also been able to ascertain that using the human brain, the Sirens pulse their information in bursts of layered code. So far we’ve been able to find three distinct layers. The top layer was a distress signal, intended to provide proximity data. The second layer was geological and meteorological information, to include the water and salt content in the atmosphere. The third, and perhaps the most interesting, was the schematics of all electrical infrastructure grids on the planet.”
He let that sink in.
Then he stepped forward.
“Now for my surprise.”
Modern American war is as easy to script as a B movie.
Colonel David Hackworth
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THERE WILL ALWAYS be those who think that science fiction authors copy the best ideas and discard the worst, pillaging effortlessly from the body of work that has come before. The fact is, modern realities and an author’s own insistence on following the physical laws of the universe limits possible choices, especially when trying to construct something that can protect the wearer while enabling him or her to cause as much damage as possible. So when the Faraday Suit was revealed, none of us were really surprised. We’d read Scalzi and Steakley and knew how they’d portrayed power armor and powered exoskeletons. Did they copy from Heinlein’s Starship Troopers? Had he copied from E. E. Doc Smith’s Lensman novels? Was Ridley Scott a big old cheat for letting Sigourney Weaver use one to defeat an alien? Or was it a simple reality that the limitations of our imaginations reflected the physical certainties of our universe, that there were only so many things we could actually do to stay alive in a hostile environment or against a hostile force with greater physical attributes?
Whatever the truth of it, the entirety of CBT OMBRA gasped, then cheered as a man in a powered exoskeleton walked noiselessly from the shadows to stand beside Mr. Pink, half again taller than the slim gentleman in the black fatigues. Like a used car salesman at the end of the world, Mr. Pink ran down the important elements of the suit for us, including the thirty anti-aircraft missiles resting in a left shoulder array which he called a Mini-Hydra. This was complemented by an XM214 rotating-barreled machine gun and what we’d come to learn was a harmonic blade. These, he said, were the martial trinity of the Electromagnetic Faraday Xeno-combat Suit (EXO). The suit was designed specifically to keep the wearer alive against the mass attacks of the Cray drones. Inside, an intentionally rudimentary electronics package was protected by an electrified micromesh that completely covered the outside skin of the suit, itself creating a miniature Faraday cage which would protect it from the electromagnetic pulses generated by the Cray.
Half an hour of marching back and forth on the stage, and every one of us wanted to get into an EXO. Like an infantryman with a new rifle, a teenager with a new car, or a child with a new toy, each of us imagined the joy we’d feel once we strapped in, switched on and locked out. My entire body itched with the need to wea
r the suit.
Then came the news that they only had twenty ready.
We’d have to share.
We broke into our groups and waited for orders to filter down from the RSM. As it turned out, Recon was given six of them, probably because when we finally made it out of our underground lair and into the war, we’d be the first to wear them, the first to lay our asses on the line. All grunts might be equal, but some grunts were a little more equal than others. Recon was among them.
I’ll give you this. Olivares could have decided to take a turn in the suit first, but instead, he let us draw straws. MacKenzie got it first and we laughed our asses off as he struggled to wear it. There wasn’t even an instruction pamphlet. This was all trial and error.
“Hope I don’t set off these missiles trying to find out how to close this focking thing,” he cursed.
And then we watched as he trundled around the cavern like a storm giant come to Earth.
And then it was my turn.
And then it was everyone else’s.
And eventually, we figured out how to use them just in time to take a slow boat to East Africa, where we’d find a way to beat the Cray or let the world die as punishment for our mistake.
Another shooting. Another apparently perfect neighbor walked into a public school and blasted seventeen kids and five teachers. Now the experts are telling us that the person was disturbed, that he’d been under treatment. Do you own a weapon? Have you ever sought counseling from a mental health professional? You know, like a priest or a rabbi or a psychologist? What would they say about your past if you went into a school and began shooting people? What is that? You say you’d never do that? Maybe that’s the point of all of this. Maybe the guilty would never do this either. Maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe they were made to do it. I’ve asked a lot of questions today. Answer the question if you dare. What do you believe?